everything about you leads to home
by Ellsweetella
Summary: She thought he was dead, but there he was, seven years later, standing at her doorsteps, alive. SS/HG
1. Chapter 1

_Note: All that you recognise belong to JK Rowling._

 _The title is taken from Tania De Rozario's And the Walls Come Crumbling Down_

 _Warning: Mentions of suicide and character death_

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" _Everything about you leads to home. Veins visible like tributaries running up your forearm. Skin mapping scars, creases, bends. And beyond the armour of your teeth, visceral constellations.'_

 _Tania De Rozario, And the Walls Come Crumbling Down_

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* * *

She had attended his funeral – 15 June 1998.

It was more of a memorial really, a memorial for those who died during, after, and because of the war. The list of the dead continued to grow longer and heavier as the days went by as bodies were found and identified, and as the injured collapsed from stress and complication. No one talked about those who took their own lives.

Those who had survived struggled to rebuild the world, the community, their lives. How do you do that? How do you move forward when the deaths, the horrors that you had witnessed clung onto you like chains, that wound themselves around your body, curled around your heart and dragging behind you with balls of steel attached to them?

The list grew and stopped. And those who survived (Hermione hated that word. Survive. They weren't exactly survivors, not really), had decided that a memorial was in place to honour the dead and possibly provide some form of closure for the living.

So many gone. Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, Fred, Mad-eye Moody, Lavender, Colin, Melissa, Flynn, Jacob, Rowan…the list grew and grew and grew, names both familiar and unfamiliar etched on the multitude of gravestones.

Snape. And there is Professor Snape. Severus Snape. Severus.

Harry had been the one who gave his eulogy. He spoke about his bravery, his role as a double agent ('he was Dumbledore's, never Voldemort's, never Tom Riddle's'), spoke about Lily Potter, about Snape's love for her.

Harry spoke about Snape, but never truly about him.

He did not know the side Severus Snape had carefully kept hidden and locked from the prying eyes of people. He was no witness to the way his eyes turn you liquid fire under their heavy, powerful gaze, no witness to the hushed whispers behind the dark orbs, no witness to the moon that seemed to reside in his eyes. He was no witness to the way his hands, calloused and rough yet so gentle as they held beakers full of potions and ingredients as if they were the singular purpose in the universe, was no witness to the way his hands caressed you, touched you, brought you to heights of ecstasy you had never known, then caught you as you shatter, holding you like how he held his potions, held you like you were his only beacon of light in the sea of darkness. He was no witness to the way the corners of his mouth curled into a smile, not the cruel smile that everyone was accustomed to, but a sincere one, so full of life and joy and simple (although simple was never Severus Snape). He was no witness to the way his body trembled with laughter, so rare but so ensnaring that you would do anything to hear that laughter and see his body change with it. He was no witness to the scars that mapped his body, lines that reside in solitude, lines that meet and diverge, lines that begged to be traced, as if they would lead to his heart, his soul, to him. He was no witness to the veins that ran up his arms, to every fold and bend and wrinkle of his skin, of skin stretched tight, of skin discoloured, of skin smooth and untouched, of protruding bones, of his body that felt like home.

Harry was no witness to the bravery, to the brilliance of Severus Snape.

And under the assault of the rain and wind, tears had stung Hermione Granger's eyes.

She wept. She wept for the dead, wept for the living, wept for all that was and all that would be. And she wept for him, for Severus Snape.

No one knew about him, about her, about them. No one thought that her tears would be for her (ex) Professor as she sobbed into the shoulders of Ron Weasley, who had placed an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. Professor Snape was her secret, and she was his, which he literally took to his grave. When she closed her eyes, she could see them, together, in bed, by the fire, fingers entwined, lips against shoulders, lips against lips, body against body…

And she could see his death. Blood. His blood staining the ground, seeping into floorboards.

 _She watched in horror as You-Know-Who released his snake on Snape, watched as it sank its teeth into his exposed neck, watched as his red, red blood leaked from the gaping holes, as colour drained from his face, whatever little that it originally had, as his face contorted in pain, watched as his lips parted in a blood curling scream, as it is silenced, watched as he watched her, watched as his eyes begged her not to move, begged her to leave._

 _She could only watch. She could only watch the man she loved die. Every gasp he took felt like knives in her stomach._

' _I regret it,' Voldemort said coldly. He turned away; no sadness in him, no remorse._

 _She wanted to kill him, right there, right now, even if it would cost her own life. It took every ounce of self-control that existed within herself to stop herself from doing something foolish._

 _And when Voldemort left, she had rushed to the barely alive professor. She could barely make him out through the veil of tears._

' _Professor – Severus,' She croaked, her voice heavy with emotions._

 _Silver liquid oozed from his body, trickling down from his eyes, mouth, nose, ears. Hermione quickly conjured up a flask, her fingers trembling. 'Take this,' he said with immense difficulty, his voice barely audible._

 _The liquid flowed into the flask._

 _Her fingers found his, and her right hand reached for his cheek, cupping it as her thumb drew mini circles on his skin, a gesture she had often done in bed, his head on her lap. Cold. So cold._

' _I love you,' threatened to drip from her lips. His eyes, however, stopped them._

 _This was it then? Even at the face of death, she still could not love him openly?_

 _She had once said that she would keep them a secret. A secret that she would bring to her grave, if needed be._

 _She had thought that once the war was over, they could, you know, maybe forge something out of the past, moving forward, one step at the time into the future together._

 _She knew that he had expected himself to die. She just didn't want it to be true. But it was. He was dying before her, life seeping out of his body, a body so broken and bent that it could no longer contain his soul. And with him, she felt her soul leave her too._

 _She had read about soulmates. Love that is destined and fated, love that connects and binds and when one dies, so do the other._

 _She never believed in that concept._

 _But with him, she wished it were true. Soulmates. Destined lovers._

 _He had given her the universe. She found constellations in his eyes, felt the expansion and burn of the sun in his mouth, felt time stop and reverse and speed up. The universe burned when she was with him. And now that he is dying, the universe seemed to be eroding away too._

' _Look at me,' he murmured._

 _She lifted her eyes, tears finding their way down her cheeks and falling onto his skin. His dark eyes met her and she could see, could feel the viscous love that poured out and enveloped her, warm and all-encompassing and safe._

 _No words were needed. She knew, oh, she knew._

 _The universe might crumble with his death but she would always find her way and rebuild, recreate the universe piece by piece with her own bare hands. She was Hermione Granger after all._

 _She would live. And she would do a darn good job of it._

 _For him, for their memories, for all who are gone._

That was what she had tried to do for the past seven years. She has tried to find her footing in a world torn by the war, even if it meant learning how to crawl, then walk all over again. It wasn't easy, not at all. The after effects of the war were long lasting and far reaching, leaking into quiet nights in the form of dreams – nightmares. It wasn't unusual to hear screams in the middle of the night. As people tried to heal, they had to confront what they feared, what had hurt, and what that feared and hurt materialised at night in their minds.

Dreamless Sleep and Sleeping draughts were in constant high demand.

Hermione was guilty of relying on them too. It was difficult not to, when images of her friends, of _him_ , getting hurt and dying engulfed her consciousness once she is asleep. The mostly empty house did not help. The only comfort she had come from Crookshanks, and later, Dalia, a little black stray that decided that Hermione was worthy of her presence. Their warmth was a much-cherished presence on her bed, and sensitive to their human companion's (owner's) emotions, they would flicker their tails or lick at her face whenever she was plagued by her nightmares, which happened rather frequently, and trying their very best to free her from whatever that was causing her to cry out in her sleep, even if their actions weren't exactly effective all the time.

When she wasn't sleeping, she had first thrown herself into her studies, completing her N.E.W.T.S, then thrown herself into work. She was a potion maker for, providing them with potions that they needed, especially to cope with the surge in demands for sleep potions and calming droughts. She had found that the wizarding world was lacking in the mental health department, a gap that was increasingly salient after the war. And so she had thrown herself into further research, enrolling herself in private Muggle schools to complete her GCEs and A levels, then moving on to a Muggle University, specialising in psychology while completing her Masters in both Potions and Arithmancy.

Harry, Ron and Ginny often wondered how she had managed to cope with such copious amount of work.

She had to. She had to work to live, just like how they had relied on their Auror training and Quidditch.

It gave her a purpose.

She had a universe to rebuild after all.

Would _He_ be proud of her?

Her heart clenched.

She had long since realised that she might not be able to let go of him. Everything reminded her of him. A poem she chanced upon while browsing the bookstore. The aroma of black coffee from the café. The sight and smell of his favourite tea (one sugar, no milk). Potions. The smell of Amortentia (fresh cut grass, new parchment, spearmint toothpaste, the potions classroom, _him_ ). Clothes that she thought would suit him. Shoes she thought he would like. Black. Green. Even Doctor Who reminded her of him, somehow. She did not know how.

Everything led to him. And he was gone. All that was left was the stain of tears on her cheeks. She had nothing of him to remember him by, only her memories which had begun to falter. His face and voice were starting to become fuzzy and she feared, she was terrified of the day in which she could no longer conjure him and their memories up in her mind. And so she continued to cling onto their memories, cling onto the wavering picture of him in her mind, keep the only photograph she had of him in her wallet.

* * *

It was May 2005. It was raining. It was dark.

She was curled up on her couch, a mug of tea in her hands, Doctor Who playing on the telly. She realised that Muggle TV series were comforting, a well-needed distraction from anything wizarding.

And when she thought she could finally, finally fall asleep, she heard a knock on her door and Crookshanks had dashed to it, staring at it intently.

She got up, crossed over to the door and opened it.

'Miss Granger,' the man said, voice like honey, voice soft and almost broken, voice tentative, voice carrying the world.


	2. Chapter 2

Note: The rating has been changed to M. Thank you for giving this a chance Feedbacks are always well appreciated!

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Chapter Two

He looked strange sitting in her living room, on her cream coloured sofa.

 _He_ was sitting there, his pale face stark against his black hair that fell to his shoulders. His cheeks were sunken, making his nose looked far larger than it already is. And his eyes, oh, his eyes.

'Are you real?' It was all she could say. Her fingers had reached out for him, itching, yearning to touch his face but she forced herself to stop. It felt as though he would disintegrate if she touched him, like the _him_ who visited her in her dreams.

'Yes.' His voice sent shivers down her spine. How long had she yearned, wished to hear him speak? To hear his voice once again. To hear him call her name.

'You are dead,' she said. 'I saw you…'

'I know.'

She wanted to scream. She wanted to shout at him. At the world. It felt as though she might burst from the rush of emotions that attacked her constantly in angry waves. She was furious, yes, but relieved and happy and Merlin, she loved him, still loved him, with all her might, and the sight of him, alive at her doorsteps just –

Their lips collided.

His taste, Merlin, his taste. She missed it. She missed him. His arms circled her waist, pulling close against him as his lips hungrily sought hers, his tongue trailing across her lips, tasting her, exploring her.

She could taste the saltiness of tears – whose, she did not know.

They were an implosion of emotions. The world collapsed around them as their lips and hands desperately found each other. They were a car crash, high impact, bodies colliding, adrenaline screaming, tires screeching as nails found skin through layers of cotton and silk. And tears, there were tears, tears and desperation and pain.

Maybe – Maybe through her kisses she could convey all her longing, her pain, her passion, her love to him and maybe through his kisses could she understand what he was feeling.

He had pressed her up against the wall, her back slamming against the cream coloured wall where a picture of them hung. His hand was underneath her shirt, his thumb brushing against the thin fabric of her bra, and the other cupped her face, his fingers tangled up in the wildness of her hair. His erection was pressing against her and she felt that familiar pool of heat burning inside. 'Severus.' His name falls off her lips in short breathless gasps, warm against his ears.

She wanted him. She needed him. Seven years. It had been seven years and all these time he had been alive. _Alive_. Under her nose. Under everyone's noses.

That woke her up.

She pushed him away, cheeks tear stained and lips swollen. She must look like a mess.

'We need to talk,' she said and she could see the exact same words flashing through his eyes.

Rationally speaking, she was supposed to be angry. The person she loved apparently feigned his own death but she couldn't. Not at him, not when he looked like this, almost broken and almost disintegrating, trying so desperately hard to retain a façade of apathy.

She closed her eyes, willing her tears to disappear. She. Must. Not. Cry.

They found themselves on the couch once more. He took in a deep breath, his hair tousled from their kiss.

'I was dead. My heart stopped for seven seconds. It is a miracle, really, that I am still alive,' he said, his voice soft, controlled, overly controlled.

She looked at him, pain and sorrow –for him - in her eyes, her hand finding his.

'I do not know what had exactly transpired between dying and waking up, but I assume that my house elf, Finny - you have met her – had apparated me away from the Shrieking Shack and instead of my quarters, she had left me out on a Muggle street instead. I was found by a woman – muggle, who worked as a Doctor and had nursed me to health, using electricity to jump start my heart. It took a month before I regained full conscious and another three months before I could walk. I hid. Until today.'

His words were clipped and cold, uncomfortably distant. His fingers on his right arm curled into the flesh of his left, his nails almost breaking through the skin and were sure to leave red crescent dents on his pale arm.

She fought the urge to caress his face and draw him into her embrace, to whisper that everything was okay and over repeatedly into his hair. Everything was not okay. There was no point in pretending it was.

'I hid. It was cowardly of me, I know that. I-'

'Stop. You are not a coward. You are one of the bravest men I have ever known, as infuriating and stubborn as you can be,' she stopped him, her heart aching for him. She knew that what he did to her, to everyone was selfish, but wasn't she selfish for needing him, for potentially robbing him of his need to heal in solitude? It was not like she could immediately forgive him, no. He had hurt her but he was hurting too.

It was hurting her mind.

She could feel a headache forming inside her skull.

'Hermione.'

It was strange to hear him say her name again. The way his lips formed her name sent pangs of sourness straight to her heart.

'I – You're… How are you?'

She gave a watery chuckle at his words. _How are you_. It used to be her words to him ever since she had found him, injured, in a dark corridor after attending a Death Eater revel. She had tried to nurse him to health but she was evidently lacking, his injuries far worse than what she could cope with. Still, she tried, and he, well, he survived that night. It became a habit, really, to ask after him.

'As good as I can be.' She smiled, her cheeks hurting.

Silence overwhelmed them.

'Are you - '

They blurted.

He signalled for her to go first.

'Are you with her?' her voice was barely above a whisper. She had to know. She –

'No,' he replied. 'She's married. To a nurse. He, too, helped take care of me.'

She nodded slowly, staring down at her hands.

'Are you…?'

'No. I was. Now no, not married, not with anyone, no.'

'Was?' Did she hear a tinge of sadness, of betrayal in his voice? Anger bubbled inside of her which she immediately tried to suppress.

'Ron. I was with him a year after you… And we ended things three years ago,' she said, looking at him in the eye.

'Right,' he said. 'I think I saw some pictures.'

Silence.

When had things become so difficult between the two of them? Right. Yes, of course. Ever since he faked his own death.

'What are you doing now?' she finally broke the silence.

'I am trying to apply for a job, reintegrate myself back into society. It will be difficult, obviously, but I will try. I owe you that, at least.' His voice was soft, gentle, almost chockfull of unsaid emotions. He changed. He really did and she just wanted to so desperately pull him into a crushing hug, to kiss that haunted look from his eyes.

'Where are you staying?'

'Spinner's End. But my belongings are all gone. I have to search for them. It couldn't be helped. It has been seven years, after all. I don't expect my belongings to remain, not when everyone thought I was dead.' It seemed like he had taken up her habit of rambling.

'I have them. Your belongings. I have them with me in a vault.' She bit her lower lip, which he stared at. 'We can collect them, together, if you want.'

'That would be nice.'

The conversation was painful. It was too clipped, too formal, too distant to convey what they really wanted to ask and say. There were so many things that they had to work through, so many questions that were unanswered. Everything just settled as a thick layer of blubber in her organs, a constant, heavy reminder of the pain and hurt she went through.

She closed her eyes, tears welling up in them again.

She did not know if she wanted him to remain dead. She felt as though she might implode.

'Professor, why… why did you come?' she finally asked, tears dripping down her cheeks.

'You. I want you.'

* * *

'Good morning Professor. How are you this morning?' she asked with a horribly annoying smile the moment he regained consciousness from his deep potion induced slumber.

He groaned and turned away from the stream of sunlight. 'Return to your dormitory right now, Miss Granger.'

'I will, sir. Remember to take your potions,' she couldn't help but to nag, barely suppressing a smirk when his face contorted into a deeper frown.

She thought she had heard a 'thank you' when she left.

* * *

'Good afternoon sir,' she greeted him in the corridor as he brushed past her. 'How are you?'

'None of your business, Miss Granger. Five points for meddling.'

* * *

'Good evening sir,' she said as she entered his office.

'Exactly on time, as always.' He did not look up from his stack of essays.

'Should I start cleaning the beakers now?'

'No, Miss Granger. You shall categorise the articles about potion makings. Right there,' he drawled, impatience dripping from his words.

'Yes sir!' She could barely contain her excitement. Articles! Academic articles and research about potions!

She settled down at the corner, eager to start her work. Maybe detention with Professor Snape was not too bad after all.

'Sir?' She looked up from her papers.

No response.

'How are you?'

'Fine,' he replied curtly.

She grinned.

* * *

She hugged him.

Before she could process what she was doing, she hugged him, fuelled by the rush of adrenaline and excitement and oh my god! It was the original research paper by the renown potions master, Raynold Litmus, detailing the connection between muggle science and potion making.

'Thank you thank you thank you!' she gushed into his chest, her eyes wide and glistening with excitement. He stood there, awkwardly, his arms not quite knowing where to go.

'Miss Granger.' He cleared his throat.

'Sorry Professor,' she leapt away from his arms, flushed and missing the feel and warmth of his robes.

He gave a curt nod.

'How are you?' she blurted.

He looked at her, surprised. His lips twitched. 'What do you think?' he said as he walked away, his cloak billowing behind him.

* * *

'You read Shakespeare?' she asked, surprised by the collection of plays she had found in his room.

'Is it that surprising?' he arched his eyebrows and took a long sip of his tea.

'Well, no. I mean. Kind of? Not many purebloods engage in Muggle literature. But I suppose that someone of your calibre would read Muggle literature.' She hummed, curling up in one of his couch, flipping open one of the leather bound books.

'Firstly, I am not pureblood. Half-blood. Secondly… My calibre?' he stared her down and she, not daring to look up from her book, could hear his signature arching of his brows in his voice.

'Well…' She flushed. 'You are highly intelligent, you like books, literature, and I know that you are not as prejudiced as what you like people to think. In fact, I think you are not prejudiced against us, muggle-borns at all. And well, you would find the value in Muggle literature, especially by those considered to be literary geniuses…' She stopped, her cheeks far too warm for her liking and she ducked behind the book once again in embarrassment, peeking out to gauge his reaction.

He is silent, leaning against his bookshelf, his eyes scrutinising her and she felt herself burn underneath the intensity of his gaze which seemed to be made of liquid fire. She remembered what he had told them in their first Potions lesson – 'ensnare the mind and bewitch the senses'. She found that that applied rather too well to his gaze.

'What is your favourite?' She found herself embarking onto another ramble and she got up, taking quick steps towards him to return the book to its proper position on his shelf.

'Mine is, embarrassingly, Romeo and Juliet. I know, now that I think of it, it really is essentially a love story between a pair of lovers who really only known each other for a few days, and Juliet is barely fourteen. Still, it does have it charms with its themes of love and fate and gender. I was nine when I read it and I just… Well, and there is this line, "For saints have hands that pilgrims do touch, and-'

Her lips found hiss, soft and sweet against his chapped ones, eating up her words. He stood there, still, surprised, but made no movement to push her away and instead, against all rationality, softens into the kiss.

'palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss,' she breathes. She did it. She kissed him. Weeks and weeks and weeks of suppressing that crazy itchy desire had finally been tamed in a simple chaste kiss. Then another flame, much itchier than the one before, settled in the pit of her stomach.

She must have lost her mind, really, to kiss him (her Professor!). Just that he – well, she could not deny the desire she had for him and he just looked so kissable leaning against his shelves and as she had leaned towards him in an attempt to return the book, she had caught a whiff of his scent and blimey, he smelled absolutely amazing, and look, Hermione, you sound like a creep now.

She knew better than to think that there was a slight pink tinge to his normally pale cheeks.

'I- I am sorry sir. H-How are you?' she blurted and ran.

She did not hear his quiet reply.

('Euphoric. Guiltily so, Miss Granger.')

* * *

It was an explosion of repressed desires.

The room was silent except for the quiet cackling of the fire and their heavy breathing. Or hers, really. She had always been the passionate one hadn't she? The young, immature witch so blindly infatuated with her professor that she followed behind him blindly like some dog, wagging its tail, desperate for attention.

She was eighteen, remember? Older than her peers by a year because of her all too frequent usage of the time turner in her third year at Hogwarts. She was not a child. She was far from it. She stopped being a child in her first year, when she was almost killed by a troll. She stopped being a teenager in her fifth year when she was hexed by a Death Eater and she witnessed the death – the murder- of her friend's godfather. But under his gaze, she felt so small, insignificant, a dust in the wind that happened to stain his pristine robes.

'You don't get to do this to me, _Professor Snape_ ,' she snarled, spitting his name in anger.

'You don't get to speak to me in this tone, _Miss Granger_.' The seething anger was evident in his voice but she did not care.

She did not deserve to be treated like this – like some child begging for sweets from the big bad wolf. He did not get to ignore her then give her what felt like the stars then nothing, again and again. He did not get to insult and degrade her and treat her like she was dirt, in front of Slytherins or no. He went too far. He did not get to disappear on her just to return with so many wounds on his body and neglecting them and –

Why won't her stupid tears stop? She wasn't supposed to cry. She rubbed furiously at the angry tears.

'What are we. Professor, what are we? What do you want?' she sighed in defeat, looking at him with those brown eyes that pierced right through his body.

He looked at her. Still, silent, mind fighting mind, heart fighting heart. How far was he willing to go? How far would he allow himself to indulge in emotions he knew he had to suppress?

She inched forward, her body almost touching his.

'Tell me Professor. What do you want?' she whispered, her breath warm and ticklish against his skin.

His eyes dropped to her lips.

She smelled of mint and citrus, fresh and warm and full of light.

Light. So full of light.

'You. I want you.' The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

They were a volcanic explosion, months of desire bursting through, burning their fleshes as their lips met and hands roamed, as robes were removed, discarded and forgotten. His lips were scalding on her skin, sending a trail of flames down her body.

His kisses – his kisses must be made of lava because she felt as though her body was disintegrating under his touch.

She gasped as his tongue found her nipple drawing circles around it and oh –

She arched into his arms, her head lolled back, body tingling. His second finger trailed circles against her through the thin cotton fabric as his lips found their home in between her collar bones, teeth nibbling on the soft skin and tongue soothing the sharp pain.

Her body was burning.

Her own hands managed to find their own path down to his crotch, and she tentatively stroked his length, finding it already hard, but growing under her light, touches.

'Stop teasing, witch,' he growled into her ears, barely supressing the gasp that rippled through his body.

'Stop teasing, mister,' she breathed, her thumb circling the tip of his member.

She didn't know what she was doing, not really. She was mostly following her carnal instincts and knowledge she had gained from books she once read under the sheets, face flushed, fingers sometimes finding themselves stroking at her clit, her heart pounding in her ears, her teeth digging into her lower lips, as if she were afraid of making any noise (she had cast a ward around her bed). Sometimes, sometimes, she closed her eyes and pictured _him_ , his black hair falling over his face as his fingers flicked and rubbed at her. His fingers, not hers. Not hers.

She found herself on the bed, legs spread, his head in between her thighs – oh.

God.

Godgodgodgodgodgod

He chuckled, the vibrations running through her body. 'I never pegged you as the religious sort.'

'Shut up,' she gasped. 'Get back to whatever you are doing with your tongue.'

He smirked against her skin and his tongue flickered across her clit, sending another jolt of whatever-it-was. As his tongue and fingers did their magic, she writhed, her back arching and fingers digging into the soft sheets, biting so hard on her lower lips that she thought she would draw blood.

'Let me hear you,' he said, eyes looking into hers and oh sweet merlin, his fingers –

She released a moan, sweet, resounding across the room as she came, hard, against his fingers.

'I want you. I want you now,' she gasped.

'What do you want, Granger?' he quirked and eyebrow, index finger lazily trailing across her engorged clit, wet and slick. The scent of their arousal filled the air.

'Fuck me. I want you to fuck me,' she almost growled, glaring at him.

'Language, Miss Granger. I'm appalled.' He entered her, slowly, painfully so, filling her up bit by bit and she moaned, the feel of him inside of her simply addictive.

'Severus, oh. Severus.' His name rolled off her tongue as he pumped in and out of her.

They shifted and she found herself straddling him, her hips rocking back and forth, up and down as she found her own rhythm, controlling the pleasure that blinded her. His hips thrust up, meeting her own movements, and they fall into a rhythm that intoxicated them both.

His eyes fell on her breasts, that heaved with every move she took and he held them in his palms, fingers flickering and tugging at the erect buds. He watched as her head lolled back, moans and gasps falling off her lips that were red and swollen from his kisses. Her hair was wild, almost alive, falling all over her face, down her chest and he wanted to run his fingers through them.

She got off him and he pulled her into his embrace, her face to his chest as he entered her once more, their limbs tangled and her clit rubbing against his skin. He met her thrust for thrust and he could feel her clenching against his member and the pleasure was almost too much to bear. He could not help but let a groan escape his throat as she bit his neck, her tongue swirling over the mark.

He quickened his pace, and her moans turned into yelps.

'Severus,' she gasped, her voice thin and wavering as she trembled, the wave of pleasure washing over her.

'Come for me,' he said, looking at her, taking her in. Her eyes were half closed, her nails digging into his back, her body trembling, frantic, desperate for release.

His fingers found the spot where they joined and he drew frantic, quick circles over and over her clit and she shattered in his arms, him collecting her pieces and holding her together.

Her walls clenched onto his member and he felt himself tightening, on the verge of release.

'Fuck, Hermione,' he groaned.

She flickered a tongue over his right nipple.

'Hermione' he hissed into her hair as she continued her ministrations on his chest.

Too much. Too much.

He came, body shuddering as he held tightly onto her, pressing her close as he thrust, his eyes shut tight, his groan reverberating.

They lay there, breathing laboured, bodies slicked with sweat, hearts pounding.

He was warm and safe and perfect. She inhaled his scent, falling asleep in his arms.

When the morning came, he was gone, leaving a cold spot next to her.


End file.
